Cricket Bats and Fireflies
by snapslikethis
Summary: Lily and James-full time fighters for the Order-are forced in a 72 hour respite period. Angry, at first, then resigned, when they see that a break really is necessary, they decide to try and make the best of their time off by having a grand adventure. What better adventure to have than an impromptu camping trip, muggle style, back at Lily's old stomping grounds? (M for a reason.)


"I can't _believe_ he put us on respite!" spat Lily as she stormed from one end of their bedroom to the other. Every time she hissed a word with particular vitriol—_bastard_, _respite_, and _sonofabitch_ seemed to be her favourites—sparks burst from the wand clenched in her fist, singing the carpet.

Burnt polyester made James's nose itch; he sneezed.

While she wasn't best pleased with James for disapparating them from headquarters without her consent, it was Moody—not himself—who was the object of her scorn.

"That bastard," she hissed again, stomping her foot.

She left the bedroom to do a lap or two 'round the sofa.

She'd be back, James knew—being in a temper wasn't as cathartic if there wasn't an audience to share it with.

* * *

After Moody had finished questioning them about their— well, their complete and utter fucking failure of a mission—he didn't even bother to look up from the table when he told them to go. And being discharged like that would've been bad enough, but he called after them, "Evans, Potter, I don't want to see your faces for three days. Seventy-two hours, got that? No exceptions."

They'd been dismissed like children, and though James knew there was more to it than that, it felt a hell of a lot like being punished.

Lily felt it, too, because upon their arrival back home, she immediately began pacing the flat, ranting and raging. James had surreptitiously levitated items out of her path, lest she trip on a stray shoe or discarded set of pants.

He'd locked the cat in the bathroom, too—just in case.

* * *

Half an hour later, and she was still going strong.

"Respite, James. RESPITE! And there's _SO MUCH TO DO._"

"I know," he soothed from his perch on the bed, but she wouldn't—_couldn't_—be pacified.

"Don't you even care?" she demanded.

James tried to keep his own temper in check, but it was a damn unfair accusation. He told her so, but she cut across him—again. "How can he do this to us?"

"LILY—" he said sternly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"He's punishing us! Which is—you know—complete and utter shit! Because it wasn't our... James, he _said _it wasn't our fault."

Her eyes were wide, feral, caught somewhere between livid and panicked.

"Why would he turn 'round and discharge us like that? I can't believe the _nerve_—" and as she said _nerve_, she kicked the closest thing in reach—her old school trunk.

Bad move, that, although James refrained from telling her so.

She shrieked in pain, lifting her bare, throbbing foot off the ground, hopping on her good leg.

He took advantage of her distraction and hooked an arm around her abdomen, pulling her backwards onto the bed. He pried her fingers off the wand, one by one, and tossed it across the room. He wrapped both arms around her, holding her to his chest.

She was trembling—with anger, with anxiety, with exhaustion.

"Lily, _breathe_. Just breathe, yeah?"

"James—" she protested, or tried to, but he spoke over her.

"No. Calm down, Lil—you've got to calm down. We're not being punished. No, don't shake your head at me. We're _not_. He was right to put us on leave."

She craned her neck to glare at him. "You don't, James. Don't you _dare _agree with that basta—"

"Really, Lily? Moody's a bastard? Listen to yourself. You're so wound up; this isn't you. This isn't me. We've been going for four months solid without a break."

"We've been going for four months solid because there is SO MUCH TO DO."

"I know, I _know_, Lily, and I'm not dismissing that—"

She was going to protest—again—but he brushed a kiss to her temple. "No, stop. You've had your turn to rage, yeah? But it's time to calm down. Breathe. My turn to talk, alright? This is important."

Although she huffed, indignant, she nodded for him to continue. He released her; he thought she might run away, but she turned to face him instead. He cupped her face in his hands, tracing her cheeks with his thumbs, and peered down at her through his glasses. "When was the last time you slept?"

She raised her chin, defiant. "Last night."

"You know that's not what I mean, Lily, so don't be like that. "He tried— and failed—to keep the exasperation out of his voice—he was too fucking exhausted to handle her stubbornness with any kind of grace. He took a deep breath, counted out prime numbers in German, and tried again.

"When was the last time you slept for more than a few hours at a time, or without a nightmare or panic attack?"

"That's— that's not a fair question." she countered, poking a finger at his chest. "You don't sleep well, either!"

"Exactly my point, Lily. We're both beat; you just don't want to admit it."

She crossed her arms, staring up at him like he'd asked her to eat dragon dung. "James, you know damn well that lying in this bed for seventy two hours thinking about everything we're _not_ doing to help isn't going to make me sleep any better than being out there doing it!"

The tears she'd been so keen to avoid spilt down her cheeks in waves; she brushed them away, impatient. He tugged at her elbows, pulling her into his arms, and laid them both down on the bed.

* * *

She was sobbing now, trying—and failing—to regain control: she was exhausted, overwhelmed.

He softened his tone, trying to soothe her. "I know we can't just lie here Lily. D'you think I don't know that? Listen. Ssshhh. No, listen. I don't want to stop, either, not when it feels like we're finally starting to gain some ground. But if we burn out—and we're so fucking close to burning out—we're useless to the Order."

"Did Moody say that?" she mumbled into his shirt. "Dumbledore?"

"Frank."

She gasped, startled, and it turned into a hiccup. "He's always going, he and Alice both. They've got ministry work, too. It's...s'not fair that they do twice the work we do and we're the ones who get dismissed like babies."

"Lil, we _are _babies—rookies. We've only been at this for a few months while they've been at it for _years_. And Frank and Alice...Frank told me they voluntarily respite themselves. Every few months—even for an overnight holiday, if that's all they can manage, but it's the only way they stay sane. Moody must've reckoned we needed a break, or he wouldn't have shorted himself two fighters."

"Two damn good fighters," she corrected him, a glint of pride flashing in her eyes.

"Damn good fighters," he conceded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "But look at me, and listen to me. We're not any good to Moody—or to them—if we fall apart."

"I'm outvoted then?"

"Don't pout at me, Evans—you know it's not like that. I'd rather be out there, same as you, but we're wound too tight."

He pressed his lips to her temple, and felt the warmth of hers on his jaw.

She was still upset—crying, although her sobs had subsided—but she nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck and wrapped her arms around his waist.

* * *

"We _need_ to step away," he reasoned, because she still wouldn't concede. "We _need _a break. Moody _was_ right. We're wound too tight. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me we're not dead on our feet."

"That's a horrible expression, James, and you shouldn't use it."

"Fair point. Tell me we're not completely irritable, then, snapping at each other for things we'd normally be able to gloss over. Tell me we aren't completely worn down by the shit we've experienced, that we're not drinking too much to try and forget half those shitty things. Tell me we are not completely and utterly and a thousand other adjectives kind of exhausted, more tired than we thought was possible. Or tell me _you_ aren't, Lil, because _I_ am, and _I_ see his point."

James hadn't intended to raise his voice, but he had, he exhaled deeply, sighing—in frustration, exhaustion—blowing her hair as he did so. Lily pulled back to look at him, gently tracing her nails against the slope of his nose, the lines of his dry, cracked mouth, the two-day stubble shadowing his face.

She looked at him—really looked at him—and the truth of his words was in her eyes. Her eyes, ringed with fatigue and worry, framed by sopping lashes.

She nodded, once, biting her lip.

When a solitary tear slipped down her cheek, James caught it with his lips.

* * *

"I'm talking about stepping back for a few days, Lily, not giving up."

"It feels a bit like giving it up." But her shoulders had drooped, relaxing into him—she'd given up fighting him, at least. Her hand fisted into his shirt, just above his heartbeat, and he slipped a hand under hers to trace the curve of her spine.

"Nah; we'll be back in a few days. Consider it... Consider it a small investment in the sanity of our future selves."

"That's completed idiotic," she whined, but he felt her cheek bloom in a smile.

"The phrasing, sure, but I stand behind what I said. We need it."

"I know, I do, I know. You're right—about all of it." She kissed his shoulder, neck, jaw. Her fingers drummed along his side, just above his hip. "Can we just stay in bed for a few days? I can stand it, maybe, if you're here with me."

It was tempting to say yes. Neither of them had grown up with four-posters, but they bought one just after leaving school because the odd hours they kept for Order missions demanded it. Also—it was comforting, like being back at school. Even if things weren't okay, they could draw the curtains and pretend.

It had become something like their sanctuary.

But he answered, "No. It's not good enough," because it wasn't. "We need to get out of these four walls—out of our own heads—yeah?"

"What if there's an emergency?" Lily couldn't help but worry, and rightly so: as full time fighters, they were frequently called to assist in emergencies. "What if they need us?"

Except—except that no one would call—Moody and Dumbledore would see to that. Still, he tried to assuage her concerns. "I don't think Moody will call us. And I think you're forgetting that, should we have an emergency, we have this magical mode of transport that allows us to come back instantaneously."

"Har, har," she said, rolling her eyes, but she flashed him a smile, if only a small one, and it was a start.

"We'll stay in England—still reachable by patronus."

She patted his jeans pocket, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, "And you'll still have your boyfriend's mirror, so there's that."

"Har, har, yourself. I've _offered _to get a set for you and I—"

"That's your and Padfoot's sacred-and-holy-best-mates _thing_. Last thing I need is for him to hate me."

"Impossible. I think he likes you more than me, actually."

"He does," Lily laughed. "He confessed that just last week, but only because I saved his arse in that duel."

"And his favourite jacket."

"He loves that bloody jacket more than both of us combined, you know, but we're digressing and, James, I'm too fucking tired for digressions."

"Yet you aren't too tired to say the word digressions?"

"James," she reprimanded. She was still lying on top of him, and she propped her forearms up, cupping his face in her hands. She ran her nail along his stubble, and if _he_ wasn't so damn fucking exhausted he would have rolled her over and—

She must have known what he was thinking, because she turned his own words on him. "Focus, Potter. This is important, and it's my turn to talk."

"I'm listening, Evans, but you've got to stop with the thumbnail."

"Fair point." She stopped, and he immediately regretted having opened his mouth. "The last thing I need is for you to have _two_ mirrors, because then you'd be _twice_ as vain."

"You cheeky prat," he snorted, turning his face to kiss her palm. "That's the very important thing? Also, should know you that that's very unlikely as I'm already pretty vain."

She slid one hand down his torso, wrapping around his side, and buried the other in the nape of his neck, massaging small circles there, occasionally tugging lightly on his unruly strands of hair.

She yawned and relaxed into him again, kissing his nose before she settled her head back onto his shoulder. "You can be vain, sure, but only on account of that hair."

"Mmmhmm," he hummed, appreciating her ministrations.

* * *

He wasn't sure how long had passed. He might've been asleep, actually, when she asked where he thought they should go.

"Somewhere happy."

"Here with you, James...it's the best I've got."

"Somewhere comfortable, then."

"Hmmm."

"Any patronus memories come to mind?"

* * *

"How do you feel about camping?"

"Camping? Sounds brilliant."

He kissed her nose, or tried to, but got her brow instead, and she sniggered at him. "Can we go muggle camping?"

"As in—no magic?" He wasn't opposed, but after the doxies, sixth year, he'd learned that it was prudent to clarify terms before agreeing to any potential Mad Lily Plan.

"No. It's just that I've seen wizarding tents...hardly roughing it with an actual stove and sofa and loo."

"I'm not sure I see the merit in roughing it." He was being contrary for the sake of being contrary, to tease her, and they both knew it.

"Being a pansy, Potter?" She tickled his ribs lightly, causing him to squirm.

He clamped down her hand with his own. "Insulting my manliness, Evans?"

"Oh, absolutely. Also: your sense of adventure, and your marauder honor."

"Low blows."

"That's how I operate," she said, a full, cheeky grin on her face. It was, and he adored her for it. He kissed the corner of her mouth, just where her dimple was showing.

"It could be an adventure," she prodded. He could tell she was more excited about the prospect than she was willing to let on. "I've got all the equipment—remember those lumpy boxes I made you lot rescue from the garage after—"

She dropped off, unwilling to finish her sentence. But she didn't have to; it was settled for him. "Sounds fun. Fuck knows we could use an adventure."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

When a smile—a real, genuine smile—split her face, he couldn't help but mirror it. She squeezed him in a tight hug, and as she said that she loved him, her eyes wet his shoulder. He ignored her tears—she preferred when he ignored them—and told her how much he loved her, too. He stroked her hair, matching rhythm with the hand still working to uncoil the tension in her lower back.

* * *

He stifled a yawn, or tried to, but it was pointless because they were both going to fall asleep.

The sun was just rising, anyway—they would still have most of the day to start their muggle camping adventure.

Lily muttered incoherently into his shoulder—something about wands and authenticity—before slipping into unconsciousness.

Right, nap.

After drawing the curtains, he tossed his wand, glasses, and watch in the general vicinity of the night table. All three missed, thudding to the carpet, but he'd already curled around her, closed his eyes, and waited for her steady snores to lull him into oblivion.

* * *

James woke up to a depressingly empty bed, a pissed off bladder, and a burgeoning headache.

The sun was shining through the slanted blinds, blinding him. He rolled over and muffled his face in his pillow, trying to go back to sleep, but Lily's colourful swears meant that she was awake and packing.

His nostrils were assaulted by the toast she'd burnt, the coffee she'd aced.

He'd be a sod if he lay in bed while she worked her arse off trying to get them ready to go camping.

Camping.

He couldn't fathom what muggle camping entailed, but _anything_ would be better than flittering about the flat like caged animals for three days. It was bound to be interesting.

He should get up and help her.

He really should.

* * *

It was the cat's inhuman wail that finally roused him.

He grunted and rolled out of bed, setting his feet on the floor. He bent to retrieve his glasses and wand, only to realize that Lily had placed them neatly on the nightstand.

* * *

He'd thought Lily was completely barmy when they first moved in together and she insisted they keep their potions behind the mirror in the loo, but she was right.

Convenient thing, medicine cabinets—if not a bit unsanitary.

He pulled out a vial labelled 'for headaches', downing it in one gulp.

Ah, _relief_.

* * *

He stood just short of the living room, leaning against the doorjamb to observe half a dozen open boxes, their contents littering the floor and Lily—wearing his t-shirt, and not much else, saw—standing in the centre of it all.

* * *

Summer before last, he'd popped down to Cokeworth to fine tune their agenda for the first prefects' meeting next day only to find Lily—always procrastinating Lily—knee deep in a pile of Hogwarts paraphernalia, panicked, trying desperately to pack everything last minute.

* * *

It was like that, now, except that instead of the trunk, she was flanked by two large hiking packs.

"Making progress?"

"Definitely," she said as she stomped her foot into one of them, squashing the contents down. He saw a flash of her white knickers. "It was rough going, for awhile, but I'm almost done."

"I heard," he chuckled. She flashed him her favourite finger. He stuck his tongue out. They were mature, if nothing else.

"Seems like an awfully lot of stuff."

"It's equipment, not _stuff_," she corrected, though not unkindly. She placed her hands on her hips, surveying the mess. "When you don't have a magically expanded tent it all adds up, doesn't it?"

"Apparently." He pointed to a miniature ice box, two long poles, several bags of groceries, and all the other items she hadn't packed. "How are we going to get all this _equipment_ there?"

"This," she waved at the floor, "is surplus." She pulled her wand out of her back pocket—Moody be damned—and waved it several times, sending items to their respective boxes.

"The food, the cooler, the poles, we'll carry." She knelt before the packs to begin securing the numerous latches, ties, and straps. "We can Disapparate just outside the wood. We'll have a bit of a hike to the campsite—no more than a few kilometres."

He eyed the gear warily—specifically, the larger of the two bulky packs. "I'm not being argumentative, yeah? Just...if we're going to Apparate, why not go straight to the campsite?"

"It's been ages since I've been in that forest...I want to see it again. I carried a pack when I was seven, and my dad and I always managed, so I'd like to think we young adults in the prime of our youth can do the same."

"Practice that, did you? We both know I'm not going to be bested by a seven year old girl."

She shrugged. "It's how I operate."

"I know," he said ruefully, but the curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

"It's very effective. I'm pragmatic, if nothing else. I had one other, very practical consideration to make," she said. He saw the smirk playing at a corner of _her_ mouth, the mischievous glint in her eye, and he crossed his arms, steeling himself for whatever cheeky bludger she was about to beat his way. "It's been years since I've been out there, so there's a chance—a good chance—that the trees are different. Would you want to Apparate into a tree?"

"No," he choked, "wouldn't want that."

"I was speaking hypothetically, of course. I only _imagine_ that Apparating into a tree would be highly unpleasant."

She knew about that, then, did she? He was going to curse Black—that traitorous bastard—for snitching on him. His ears turned pink.

"In my defence, I was very drunk—"

But a peal of laughter ruptured from her mouth, interrupting him, seeming to split her in half as she collapsed to the ground, giggling and gasping for air.

The cat—James was relieved _he _wasn't the one to free him from the loo this morning—who had been lounging on the sofa, startled at her outburst, voiced his displeasure, and glared at her disdainfully.

* * *

James glared at her, also, and continued, "It was _up _a tree, Evans, not _in _a tree—_would you stop laughing_—it was a thorny tree. There were fucking nettles at the base! I was picking them out of my legs for two days!"

His evil, mean, terrible girlfriend grasped her sides, howling; their cat retreated to the bedroom in apparent disgust at them both; James frowned and rubbed his thigh, remembering those damned foul stinging nettles.

He protested that it wasn't funny, except—he knew it was. He'd be laughing, too, if it'd been anyone but him.

* * *

"So...we'll hike in? " she questioned, once she'd collected herself long enough to speak. She dabbed her eyes with the hem of his old t-shirt.

He tried to ignore her terribly and unfairly sexy knickers that were quiet visible as she did this—on principal—but it wasn't easy.

"Better to be safe than sorry," she crooned, shaking with suppressed mirth.

And then it was easy, because she was a prat, except not really.

He nodded his agreement and stepped forward, reaching for the bigger pack. "I've got this one." He quickly set it back down, however, because _fuck_, it was heavy—ridiculously fucking heavy—and how had her father ever carried as much? How had she?

She knelt to pick up her wand—which she'd dropped during her completely unnecessary laughing fit—and pointed it towards his pack. "We can magically lighten your pack, you know."

He waved her off. "That won't be necessary, Evans, but thanks."

If she could handle a heavy pack, damn it, so could he.

_Man up, Potter_.

He braced himself, grabbing her pack by the strap to hoist it up and test its weight, before he heaved with all his might. As it sailed into the air he lost his balance and took a half-step backwards, catching himself, thankfully, before he fell backwards on his arse.

"Charming your pack, Evans?" he accused, "What was that about authenticity?"

"We're going muggle camping, James, but there's no sense in torturing ourselves. It took Dad and me three trips to and from the auto to haul all of our equipment in, so our packs weren't half as heavy as these."

She charmed his bag, lightening it, and he didn't protest. When she'd finished, he held out a hand to pull her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him good morning. She tasted like burnt toast, and that terrible toothpaste, and _home. _

* * *

She pulled away long before he was ready to stop, plucking one, two, three more kisses off his lips—playing them like a bloody violin—before settling her head on his shoulder.

He wanted her—he _always _wanted her—but he knew they needed to get going.

He wanted to walk backwards to the couch; contemplated going for her neck; lifting her ass up to wrap her legs around him. He could persuade her, and he could justify losing an hour, or four. But they'd fall back asleep—of course they would—and what they needed, even more than a shag, was to get out of this damned flat.

"G'morning." He kissed her temple and pulled her into a proper hug.

She pressed her lips to his collarbone. "G'morning. You sure you're really okay with this?

"'Course I am," he said, and found that he meant it.

* * *

She wanted to kiss him again, and she was contemplating it, but they both knew it would lead to no good—well, good, but not camping. She settled for his cheek, and stepped away.

She threw a thumb behind her shoulder, pointing at the plate of burnt toast on the counter. "Now eat up—or make yourself a proper breakfast—else we'll fall behind schedule. I'm going to go take a shower."

"Schedule?"

"More a list of camping traditions you need to experience, but schedule sounded better."

She smacked his bum as she sidled by, then scurried away before he could reciprocate.

"Yes, Lieutenant," he saluted, starting toward the wall of cabinets that served as their kitchen. He called after her, "Did you' know you're dead sexy when you're bossy?"

"I did, actually, since you've mentioned it once, or twenty times. And since _I'm_ in charge this weekend, I'll be extra bossy...just foryou."

She winked, throwing him a salute of her own, then turned on her heel and marched out of the room, the hem of her t-shirt billowing in her wake.

* * *

Apparating, side-arm, with a bulky pack strapped to his back, mucking up his centre of gravity, was no joke. He lifted his face from the dirt to see that Lily, too, had landed awkwardly—on her bum, something she hadn't done, intoxicated Apparitions excepting, since sixth year lessons.

Pulling each other up, they dusted bits of brush off their own jeans and from each other's shoulders.

They bordered a vast wood that stretched in a crooked line as far as James could see in either direction. Lily scanned the perimeter, looking for the path that would lead them in.

"There," she said, pointing over his shoulder toward a small gap in the trees.

He stepped aside to let her by. As she did so, he tried to smack her bum, only to be thwarted by her bulky pack. He settled for a mock salute. "Lead the way, Lieutenant."

She rolled her eyes at him, but did as he asked and led them into the forest.

* * *

Ice sloshed in the levitating miniature ice box—cool box, James reminded himself—but aside from that and the layered birdsong resonating through the treetops, a comfortable silence settled between them as they pressed into the trees.

The terrain was fairly easy—gently sloping hills, rather than the jagged northern mountains—so it was more a spirited walk than an arduous hike. And although the trail was only just discernible, Lily confidently picked her way through down into shallow valleys, and around ridgelines, hopping from trail to trail, ever confident of their course.

* * *

It was a beautiful wood—he'd give it that.

The trees were straight, thick, tall, joining to form a nearly impenetrable canopy far above their heads.

Nearly, but not completely, as sunlight did occasionally poke through, illuminating the moss of a fallen log or a patch of purple wildflowers. The undergrowth was dense, but not oppressive, and James could see without hindrance the trees stretching out around them.

They'd crossed over stepping stones, arms balanced out on either side of them—Lily, laughing, had nearly fallen in; the sounds of that stream drifted in and out of earshot as they wound through the trees.

* * *

He found something completely invigorating about being in a wood; he felt more alive, connected. He always had, long before _Prongs_ came along. His animagus form hadn't surprised him.

It must be the same for Lily, because despite her burden, he noted that she was walking straighter, taller.

When she glanced back at him, she was smiling with what he called her utterly and genuinely content smile—he'd named every one of her smiles, though he didn't share those names with her—complete with dimple at her left cheek and crinkles around her eyes, which she reserved for special occasions.

She sidestepped, picking up a long, slender switch—to beat away spider webs as she came across them.

* * *

He remembered naming that smile.

She'd worn it for an entire afternoon, lying on his bed, arms crossed behind her head as she waxed nostalgic about an old farm where her family taken frequent camping hols. He'd rubbed her feet, occasionally tickling her knees as she rambled happily about a comfortable, quiet wood, crisscrossing paths, a rope swing and an old row boat, and a long, winding stream full of stepping stones and home-made bridges.

And, of course, her beloved fireflies.

* * *

James vowed to get her in the woods more often.

* * *

After an hour's steady progress, they came into a small clearing from which several paths veined out in various directions.

He would have mistaken it for a crossroads, it was so small, but it was obviously a campsite: felled logs and stumps surround a stone circle—a fire pit, though weeds were growing up between the rocks—and the remnants of a shabby, hand-crafted wind chime swayed above an equally shabby, hand-crafted picnic bench. The ground was smooth, cleared of large rocks and roots, perfect for a tent. Although he couldn't see it, water was running in the somewhere close in the background.

He got the impression that it, like the trails, had long been neglected.

"This is it," Lily confirmed, tugging the long poles he'd been carrying out of his hand to set them against a tree.

He unburdened his shoulder, pack dropping to the ground, and lifted his arms in the air, arching his back in a proper stretch. He opened his eyes to see Lily, mouth agape, staring at his exposed stomach. He cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows, a smarmy grin on his face, "Objectifying me, Evans?"

"Absolutely, and I'm not sorry for it," she said, though her cheeks coloured, embarrassed at being caught.

He winked, and bent over, wiggling his arse at her—just in case she wanted a show—as he picked the miniatu—_cool box_—off the ground to set it on the table. She laughed, chucking a pine cone at him, which bounced off his thigh.

He picked it up and chucked it back at her, saying, "Doesn't look like anyone's been here for awhile."

"It hasn't," she confirmed as she disentangled the pine cone from her hair. "The Harrows—my dad's best mates' parents—they own this place."

"Dad's best-mates' parents?"

"It sounds complicated, but they were like a second set of grandparents to us girls."

He was hunched over the table, lid to the cool box open, trying to pick a drink. "Have I met them?"

"Erm, yeah. At the... They were... The funeral."

Her voice cracked, dropping off at 'funeral', but he heard it just the same.

Shit.

Fuck.

He snapped his head around to stare, horror struck, at her paling face. "Lily, I'm so fucking sor—"

He started toward her, but she shook her head and held a palm out, halting him.

"S'alright, James, you couldn't have remembered them. They were there. They— They had dad's old cricket bat, remember?"

He nodded, watching her warily as she swallowed thickly trying to compose herself. "He..._dad_...is..._was_...he's like a second son to them—" she glanced at him, "—like Sirius and your parents. Mrs. Harrow...we call her Gran—Petunia, and I—and Mr. Harrow is Pops."

This was the first time in the five months since it'd happened that she'd talked about their funeral. Lily paused to collect herself, sucking in several steadying, deep gulps of air—as if it could stop her from drowning. She seemed determined to get it out, though, so he didn't try to stop her.

"In the line...when she hugged me...she said they don't get out here much, but that she knew how much I'd loved the place. She said I shouldn't make myself a stranger, and that we—you and I—could, should, come out here any time."

* * *

He did remember: Mrs. Harrow's hug, surprisingly fierce for a woman of her stature. She'd stuttered through her tears how Mr. and Mrs. Evans had taken to James, how they'd bragged about him, James, to them, Mr. and Mrs. Harrow.

Mr. Harrow tenderly sliding the cricket bat into the casket, squeezing Mr. Evans's lifeless hand before turning to James. He'd clapped James on the shoulder, warned that he'd better take damn good care of his Little Firecracker, else there'd be hell to pay.

James had nodded, lump in his throat, because he didn't know what to say to these good people who'd lost a son.

* * *

James gulped, now, trying to bury the memory, and scrutinized his girlfriend—hunched over her bag, knees in the dirt, shaking fingers fumbling with the buckles on her pack; he fumbled for the right words to say.

"That's—that's very kind of them." It wasn't enough, not nearly fucking enough, but he didn't want to say too much and send her careening over the edge. Still, he had to say _something._ "They seemed like good people."

"They _are_ good people," she said sincerely, gazing up at him through watery eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to keep them at bay. "I should...I should visit them sometime. Probably should have gone to see them months ago."

This—being out here, where her family, her dead parents, had spent so much time—it was too much, too soon, or too much at once, or something_._ She lost the battle with her tears and they began to fall in earnest, sliding off her nose, staining the dirt.

He stepped forward to take her forearms in his hands, pulling her up, enveloping her into a tight embrace. He whispered, "I'll go with you, if you want. When you're ready, we can go together."

She nodded, sobbing, clinging to his shoulder and waist—for support, a lifeline.

* * *

They stood, swaying with the trees, James rubbing circles on the small of her back, whispering comfort into her ear, until her tears subsided.

When she'd done, or when he thought she'd done, he tilted her chin up, asking the one question he needed an answer for: "Are sure you want to be out here, Lily? Is this too much?"

She ducked her head back under his chin, contemplating, before she answered. "It's mad, I know it is, but this is exactly where I need to be. It's intense, and it's overwhelming. They're—memories of them are all wrapped in every centimetre of this place—but...I want to be here. Here with you. Just bear with me a bit, yeah?"

"All right, then."

"Love you," she sniffled.

He pressed his forehead to hers, and his lips to the tip of her very wet nose. "Same."

* * *

After she'd composed herself—mostly by wiping her cheeks on the front of his shirt—she'd kissed his cheek and dropped back down to a crouch, opened the fastenings of her bag, this time with more success.

She reached in with both hands, rummaging, and extracted a misshapen, bulky package that shouldn't have logically fit into the pack in the first place.

"Did you modify your pack?" he asked, catching the package—the tent—for she'd tossed it at him before returning to her bag.

"Had to—I did yours, too. Even so, there wasn't much room to spare." She emerged a second time, victorious, with a big black thing in one hand and a bag of stakes in another.

"Let's get this old tent set up, yeah?"

He agreed, grateful for the distraction.

* * *

It was an ugly canvas thing—scandalously small, James thought, though he kept that bit to himself.

With some trial and error, they'd been able to work out which poles went where. They'd tied down the corners, beating stakes into the ground with the rubber mallet—that had been the black thing.

James liked that part best.

Now, though, they had a pole left over which, muggle or wizard, was never a good omen. Also, one corner was leaning precariously, the roof was sagging, and the smallest gust of wind threatened to collapse the whole thing.

He stated the obvious: "Lily, we cocked up somehow...this isn't right."

"I know," she frowned, circling the thing—tent was a generous word at this point in the venture—trying to work out what they'd missed. "It's been a long time since I've set this up, and I've never actually been in chargeof the tent-raising before."

He frowned, rifling through her pack. "Do you have any instructions?" He couldn't find any instructions, but he did light up, coming across a cauldron cake.

"Dad didn't believe in instructions, even when he should have," she laughed.

Then her eyes lit up as she ran her hand along the underside of the roofline and she said, "Ah, here, internal bracing poles! There's a pocket here, and if you go over there you'll find another one running through crosswise—"

"Thas gweat," he said, swallowing down the last of the cake, "but we've only got one pole left."

"Shit—and is that_ my_ cauldron cake, James?"

* * *

They scoured the ground, but came up empty handed. "Could it be back at the flat?"

"Too late to go back and check at home, she dismissed. "If we want supper, we've got to go and catch it soon—"

Before he could ask what she meant by 'catch' dinner, she said, "It's been years since this tent was used...that pole could be anywhere."

For good measure, she tried summoning it, though neither was surprised when nothing happened.

She shrugged, grinning, and pointed her wand at the tent while murmuring some incantation. The corners stiffened, the roof perked up, and it finally looked something worth sleeping in.

It wasn't going to win any awards at the World Cup, mind, but it was respectable enough—for a tent.

He raised an eyebrow, teasing, "What happened to authenticity, Evans? I thought we were supposed to be muggle camping."

"Well, " she reasoned, "so far we've modified our packs to fit more than they ought, and to be lighter, our cool box to stay cool, even when our ice melts, and now, our tent to stand properly. Complete authenticity is a lost cause. It's more the activities I'm worried about, than that we don't use magic. Some aspects of muggle camping can be pretty tedious, actually, so why shouldn't we?" Then she pointed her wand at the fire pit, and her voice grew serious. "I draw the line at the campfire, though. No magic allowed there. That, at least, should remain sacred."

He didn't know the first thing about campfires, magical or otherwise, but Lily was obviously passionate about it, so he nodded his assent.

* * *

They opened the flaps, tying them to the frame to allow some air to circulate as ages in a garage had left a strong musty odour—a dungeon-like smell, James had commented, though Lily didn't appreciate his observation—and climbed in to unpack their belongings.

It was small, just as small as it had looked from the outside, and growing smaller by the minute as they unloaded clothes, food, blankets. James was just wondering if he could magically expand it without Lily noticing, when she changed his mind.

She was on her knees, wriggling her bum at him, spreading out blankets for their bed when she'd turned to wink at him—wink at him—and remarked that it would be a cosy night.

He quite agreed, as he eyed her, that this cosy little tent would suit just fine.

Before he could crawl over to her, however, to show her _just_ how cosy it could be, she crawled out, though not before kicking his bum with her foot.

She stood and clapped her hands together and said cheerfully, "Now we're unpacked, how about some supper, yeah?"

* * *

"I'm all for adventures, Evans, but _this_," he said, rattling the fishing pole in his hand, "is a completely futile endeavour."

They were sitting on a short dock—James cross-legged, Lily with her feet dangling, toes skimming the lake's surface; their lines cast were out into the murky water.

Learning how to cast his line had been a tedious and harrowing process, but he'd managed in the end. Strictly speaking, his wasn't quite as far out into the lake as hers, but she had the decency not to gloat about it.

She turned her head toward him, rolling her eyes.

"What are prattling about, James? We've only been out here for half hour, and you _love_ fishing. Your dad said you used to go when you were a boy. And..." she said, pointing a finger at him, "you and my dad talked about it for ages over Christmas supper."

"Yeah, but..." he coloured crimson, adjusting his glasses with his thumb and index finger.

"But what?" she asked, staring at him curiously, waiting for him to come out with it—she called these his 'adorable, boyish confessions'.

Best to get it over and done with, then. "Thing is," he explained, "I wanted to save face with your dad."

He knew she'd understand that—his mum thought Lily loved flowers, being named after one and all. Lily hadn't had heart to correct her, and had thus endured countless hours of tedious conversations about gardening, one of his mum's favourite hobbies.

She nodded, smiling, but nodded for him to continue, because he hadn't addressed her second question. "My dad and I...we did go fishing quite a bit when I was young."

"But?"

"Thing is, we don't do it like this, waiting for _them_ to come to _us_. It's barmy!"

"It's not mad, James, you just need to learn patience. Not sure I want to know, but how do you and your dad catch the fish?"

"We more or less stunned them. Summoned_, _then stunned—or the other way around, I don't remember."

She watched him, eyes wide in shock. "Wait—you what? You didn't have a wand."

"He let me use his."

"That's—of course he did," she laughed. "Of course he did. Stunning spells, huh? How old were you?"

"Six? Seven? Dunno."

"I'm trying to be disapproving, but I'm more jealous than anything—it's unfair that muggleborns don't get wands until they're eleven."

"Agreed. Completely agreed," he said, smiling at her. He set the pole on the dock and leaned back on his hands. "We didn't tell mum about it, _obviously, _but I think she knew."

"I think your mum more or less knows all the shenanigans you and your dad get up to."

Panic settled in the pit of his stomach; he gulped. "Do you really think so?"

"I _know_ so. You lot don't give her enough credit. But summoning and stunning fish, James? That's hardly sporting to the fish."

He countered, "Well, it's hardly sporting to trick them with a sharp hook buried in their favourite dinner, is it?"

Bullocks. Hadn't meant to say that, but she chewed her lip, staring at him, putting the pieces together. A sympathetic smile crossed her face. "James, you're worried about the fish being hurt, aren't you? Your worry is baseless; it doesn't hurt them at all."

He leaned forward and held up the hook he'd been fiddling with. "One of these in the cheek doesn't sound painless to me—hardly _humane_."

"Good thing they're fish, then, and not humans. Do you have a better solution?"

"Let me stun them after we catch them."

She shook her head. "Can't. They've got to stay on the line. Stay fresh."

Now he was indignant, and he struggled to keep his voice even. "You keep them alive, writhing around in pain, while they have hooks embedded in their mouths, so we can keep them fresh?"

He wasn't trying to cause an argument, but his concern was genuine, even for fish. His dad—an advocate solicitor for magical creatures, and something of an amateur naturalist—had ingrained into James from the earliest of ages a respect for all creatures, magical or not.

Bloody hell, he _was _an animal, at least part of the time, so his sympathies were natural.

Lily _could_ take the piss out of him for this—Sirius certainly did, and often—but she never had, and if she thought his worries ridiculous, she never said so. She grew exasperated sometimes, like now, and he did with her—any time stag stalking was discussed, for instance. In general, however, they either agreed to disagree or worked out a solution that could appease them both.

She must have been thinking the same as him, because she handed over her pole and conjured a pail, leaning over the edge of the dock to fill it with water.

"There," she said, "If we catch anything, I'll unhook them and we can keep them in here."

This pacified him, though he maintained the right to stun any fish he deemed to be in excessive pain. He left his wand beside him on the dock. Just in case. His fears assuaged, they settled into business of fishing.

* * *

It was damned peaceful out here, even more so than the lake at his parents' place.

She pointed to a small boat half submerged, half pulled up on the shore opposite them. It didn't look anything like seaworthy, but it would be interesting to investigate tomorrow, or the day after that. Further down the shore line, she indicated a low hanging tree where the rope swing used to hang.

She talked, regaling him with stories—some of which he'd heard before, but he didn't care. It wasn't about the war, and she was wearing his favourite smile, and she more relaxed, more herself, than James had seen her in months, since before the accident.

* * *

Until her pole ducked under the water, that is, then she sprang into action.

He watched, fascinated, as she turned the knob to pull the string, and the fish along with it, back toward the dock. He tried to visualize the inner workings of the reel, privately vowing to dismantle it when they got back home.

She shielded the fish from James as she removed the hook from his cheek, and then held it up proudly before tossing it into the pail. He leaned over and examined him—it was small, but seemed happy enough, so he refrained from stunning it.

She deftly baited her hook and sent it careening back into the lake.

* * *

The way she'd held up the fish, it struck him that he'd seen her do it before, though he couldn't figure out where, and then it hit him: in her parents' stairwell, a small snapshot in a larger plastic frame—a still picture, which had startled him—of a six or seven year old Lily proudly holding up a fish nearly as big as her arm.

It had probably been taken by her father, here, at this very lake.

"Thank you for sharing this with me," he said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "Camping—this place—your family." He glanced at his pole and smiled, "Fishing_."_

She smiled back. "I'm glad we're here." But her bottom lip was held captive between her teeth, and she was looking over the water, not at him, and she was working out whether or not to say something.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's just...I know you think all of this is a bit silly, ridiculous...something novel to try for a weekend..."

He cut across her, incredulous, "Do you really believe I think that?"

"Don't you, though, at least a little bit?"

"No. I don't. Lily, I don't think that at all. _Shit_. It's different, muggle things, but I don't think it's ridiculous. It's—it's your heritage." He thought she might cry, which was the last thing he wanted, and the bloody-fucking war was the last thing he wanted to bring up, but this—that she understand this—it was damned important, so he continued, " I tease you sometimes, and I know that, and maybe I shouldn't. But I thought—I thought it was the same, that you tease me about my 'pureblood idiosyncrasies'. We're not fighting a war about my heritage, though, so I shouldn't have—shit."

He sighed and pushed his glasses up with his index finger before placing his hand over hers, saying earnestly, "I _don't_ think your heritage is a novelty. That'd make me just as bad as _them_, yeah? Being a muggleborn has made you who you are, which is pretty damn fantastic. So...yeah."

"Oh."

"Oh? That's it?" he wanted to know, because he was still shocked at her, that she'd believe he thought something like that about him.

"I mean thanks. I...I didn't _really_ think you thought less of me, James. I just thought...well I was wrong—that's what matters. And thank you."

She squeezed his hand, and he was about to lean in to kiss her, fishing be damned, when his line lurched forward. He grabbed for the pole before it could fly into the lake, but when he tried to turn the wheel, it jammed.

"What do I do?" he shouted, panicked, trying to turn the jammed wheel with more force, as if that'd make it work.

"Push the button!" she shrieked, excited for him, exasperated at his inexperience.

He couldn't locate the damn button.

"Just yank on it!" Lily shouted, and he obeyed, pulling as hard as he could.

A large brown fish flew out of the water, smacking him square in the face. "Shit!" It smacked him again, and his glasses clattered to the dock. "Lily!"

"Hold still, James! I can't get hold of it with you flailing about." She wrestled the pole from him, pushed the proper lever—ah, there it is—and reeled the line in. That complete, she handed his fishing pole back. "Hold this still so I can get him off the line_."_

He disobeyed her instructions, bending down to retrieve his glasses, returning her glare with a sheepish grin while he set them, one-handed, back on his face, hen he leaned over her shoulder to properly examine the fish.

A wave of pride washed over him, for his fish was much, much larger than Lily's. "I caught a fish!"

"You did not!" she huffed, indignant, tossing the fish—his fish, his very large fish, his very much larger than Lily's fish—unceremoniously into the bucket.

"_I_ bated your worm," she reminded him. "_I_ taught you how to cast. _I_ reeled it in. _I_ did all the work. _My _fish."

"Yes, Evans," he smirked, "but it was my pole. My pole, my fish."

"Oh, sodding hell."

"He's quite a bit larger than yours," James noted, peering into the bucket. "Almost twice as large."

"I'll hook your nostril if you keep it up."

"You wouldn't—"

"I could take a cue from you, master fisherman, and be a bit reckless when I cast my line. Accidents happen, James. They happen every day."

He determined that this was a false threat, however, and whinged, "Lily, just say I've got a knack for it. Please?"

She laughed. "Will my false confession feed your ego enough to make you shut it and let me fish in peace?"

"Quite possibly."

"You've got a knack for it."

"For what?"

"Being a prat. Also, fishing. Now shush, or you'll scare the fish away away and we'll have no supper."

"If you're worried about catching any, as an expert fisherman, I can give you some pointers if you'd like—"

She dropped her line and pushed him headfirst into the lake. James had been anticipating this—it was exactly what he'd been hoping for, actually—and he darted an arm out, hooking around her waist, dragging her in with him.

* * *

He tried to duck her down, but he she was quicker, evading his lunge. She summoned his glasses, setting them, along with her wand, up on the dock. She sent a splash in his direction and swam for deeper water. He chased her, and caught her several times, but she always got away.

He wasn't sure what game they were playing—it didn't seem to matter. She was brutal, ruthless, sending him under, throwing out an elbow or a foot. He was splashing, dunking, tickling. She was a strong swimmer, but he could match her.

She was blurry, yes, but he could still see that was wearing a thin shirt—see through, currently, and her nipples were hard; her hair was down, glistening, water dripping from the ends; her body cut through the water like she was born for it—a damn water nymph, or a siren, or some intoxicating combination of the two.

He could have called her that, except she'd call him a romantic idiot, so he reached for her instead.

She kissed him soundly, wrapping an arm around his neck, pressing their bodies together. His plan—because hadn't this been the whole point—was working, except that snogging Lily was damned distracting, and it was hard to properly snog her when he was otherwise preoccupied with not-drowning. So they swam for the shallows, to sink ankle deep in the mud. They battled long and hard to extract themselves from the mud only to get tangled in some crowfoot, which effectively ended their mood, and thus, their adventure.

* * *

They lay together, heaving on the dock, sopping, unfulfilled, and covered in mud.

The sun had started its descent, casting long shadows over their shoulders, so they decided it'd be prudent to dry off with magic and catch some more fish if they wanted anything like a proper supper.

* * *

James watched Lily expectantly as she sat cross legged baiting her hook, but she smiled up at him, pointed to his pole, and held out the worm wriggling between her fingers.

"Man up, expert-fisherman-Potter, and hook your own bloody worm."

He blanched and tried to hide it, but she noticed, "It's adorable that you, with your delicate sensibilities, don't like squishy, slimy animal parts."

"Sirius is the delicate one," he corrected, plopping his head into her lap. "I'm not delicate; I'm sensible." He tickled her side. "I can handle illness and injury, and you become nauseous at a paper cut, so it's all relative. To me, it's appalling that you, with your insane preferences, do like squishy, slimy animal parts. Brilliant at potions though."

"James," she said, dangling the worm in his face, "just say that you don't want to touch the worm."

He sat up, "I don't want to _impale _the worm, Lily. Big difference."

"Good enough," she smiled, baiting his worm. He kissed her cheek in thanks.

* * *

He did a much better job casting this time around.

That is to say, he didn't get the hook stuck in the trees behind them, or crossed with Lily's line, or a pitiful two yards into the lake, or in a log, or on his jeans.

So, yes— progress.

* * *

"Dad would always bring me fishing," she said, recasting her own line, settling down next to him. She leaned against his shoulder, "Tuney hated it. She hated everything about camping. One time she tried to sweep the campsite, to clear away the dirt."

"She's mad. You're completely normal compared to her."

The corner of her mouth tilted up, "Even with my love for animal innards?"

He snorted, kissing her temple. "Absolutely. I've just got to remind you to wash your hands more often than I should."

* * *

After one hour, then another, passed without catching anything more—their little swim, unsurprisingly, had scared them away—they grew bored of fishing, or pretending to fish, and Lily asked James to show her his method.

Since he conceded that summoningthe fish beforehand was unsportsmanlike, they agreed to terms—stun the shadows in the lake, then summon 'stunned fish' to see if they'd caught one. Lily, more practiced at spotting fish, caught two before James had caught any.

When he did catch one—a large one—she quickly announced they had enough for supper, and could therefore quit.

Before he could best her, he thought, though he couldn't confirm that.

* * *

He dispatched the fish _humanely_ while Lily rummaged through the tent for her knives.

She proceeded to—he said massacred, she said prepared—them for supper.

It wasn't actually a massacre, but it was a messy task James found mildly repulsive, if not impressive.

Once the scales and squashy animal bits were vanished, she taught him how to cut the filets. That—_meat—_he could handle, so he set to carving their supper while she went to wash her hands.

* * *

James gathered firewood, following Lily's instructions, while she set to work on what she called 'her domain'—the fire.

He kept an eye on her progress as he walked on the outskirts of the campsite, searching for dry sticks to burn. She cleared the rocks around the circle, setting them aside, and pulled out the weeds that had sprouted up. She procured a small shovel to dig a shallow pit out of the centre before resetting the rocks.

* * *

He collected several armfuls of thick branches, several fistfuls of dried grass, and some smaller sticks for kindling, depositing them next to her as she laboured, then watched in fascination as she arranged them with practiced hands.

She didn't rub sticks together or anything and she laughed when he suggested it.

They weren't as primitive as all that when she was growing up, she explained, although she knew how, and also how to use something called a tinder box—a skill her father insisted she possess.

Today, however, she used matches, lighting the grass in various places, waiting for it to take hold.

James knew all about matches and confessed as much. He entertained her with all the ridiculous, dangerous experiments he and Sirius probably had no business conducting while she patiently coaxed the fire to life.

Her brow, furrowed in concentration, the glint in her eye when she was working on a project she was confident she could finish. He knew the next seven steps were playing out in her head. It was all, well, it was sexy.

Then again, everything about Lily was sexy—or could be, if he thought about it for long enough.

* * *

He had never seen Lily more in her element than she was here: in the wood of an abandoned farm, hiking, building fires, catching and cleaning her own food.

It was impressive, and a little bit intimidating, and altogether a very _Lily _thing to do. She frequently surprised him—it's partly why he'd been enamoured with her for the better part of three years.

"It's brilliant," he answered truthfully.

"It's just a campfire," she said, shrugging, but he could tell she was pleased with herself. And rightly so—she'd built a roaring fire, in less than half an hour, without magic. He was impressed.

* * *

"I'll teach you how to do it tomorrow," she said, handing him a heavy cast iron skillet. "But now it's time to earn you keep. Have fun."

This—cooking—it was something he both enjoyed doing and happened to have some skill with, which might have been why he enjoyed it so much.

He surveyed the spices she'd brought—glad to see that she'd brought everything, just in case. He added oil to the skillet and set it in the embers to warm.

He sliced a lemon, squeezing it over the filets, and rubbed various spices into them.

Like Lily and fires, James preferred cook with his hands, sans magic.

He lost track of time as he fidgeted with the fire, added more spices, and flipped browning filets with his lucky spatula.

At one point he glanced up, noticing that Lily was watching him. She'd commented more than once that his cooking ability was sexy, and she'd frequently assaulted him when he was making enjoyed the way she eyed him now—he always enjoyed that—but his attention was singularly focused on making something delicious for them to enjoy.

He bit his lip and he had to adjust his glasses more than once as he concentrated—it took a bit of trial and error to work out the temperature.

* * *

"S'ready," he announced, pleased with his success: he'd managed to produce a skillet full of perfectly browned fish.

She was behind him, perched on one of the felled logs. She'd gathered plates, and forks, and bottles of butterbeer.

"Bring it on over, then."

* * *

The sun had dropped, taking warmer temperatures with it, so they huddled together, leaning against the log, knees and shoulders knocking, feet stretched towards the fire, greedily devouring their supper.

* * *

Lily burped loudly, excused herself, and rested her head on his shoulder. "That was delicious, thanks. I'm impressed—campfire cooking can be tricky."

He nuzzled the side of her head with his nose. "It wasn't so bad. Not sure I could've built that campfire though—that's what's impressive."

* * *

"All right?" he asked as they watched the fire burn. He wanted to check up on her, because—well, because.

"Yeah," she said, "Better than I have been in ages. This—this was a good idea."

"It was your idea," he reminded her.

"No, not the place, the—the respite," he knew, and therefore appreciated, what it took for her to admit that. She didn't like being wrong, she liked admitting that she'd been wrong even less than that.

"So Moody's no longer a bastard?"

"No, he is," she smiled," just not about this. I'm sorry I sniped at you for taking us home last night—you were right; I don't even want to think about what I was going to say to him. I was just—"

"I know," he interrupted her, kissing her temple. "'Salright."

"It is?"

"Yeah."

"And you?" she said, craning her neck to look at him. "All right?"

"Yeah," and he found that he was. They were relaxed, and full, and it felt more like_ them _then it had in months. "I'm good right now."

"Good."

She kissed his jaw again and yawned, stretching her arms over her head, arching her back against the log. He tried to ignore them—he really did-but her tits were right bloody there, and damned if they didn't have unfinished business from the lake. He was about to tackle her, but stopped himself. He hated himself for it, felt like a traitor in his own body, but the fish were still settling in his stomach, and she'd said something about _plans_, and knowing his luck, if they started something here he'd probably set his trainers on fire.

She seemed a bit disappointed, too, with his extreme and uncharacteristic will power, because she raised an eyebrow at him, shooting him a disapproving look before rising to her feet.

She offered a hand, and he took it, rising to his feet with a groan. He reached for his wand to put the fire out, but Lily stopped him, saying they'd need it for later.

She gathered their dishes in a bin, handed it to him, and started off down one of the paths with a rag in one hand and soap in the other.

Right, dishes.

* * *

"What, exactly, is a snipe?" James asked, but Lily, rummaging through the tent for whatever equipment she thought they'd need, didn't answer.

Snipe hunting.

He'd had to stifle a laugh when she mentioned it on the way back from the stream, clean dishes in hand. She'd prattled about she and Petunia doing it as girls, about how cute snipes were, that it had been one of her favourite camping activities. Bloody brilliant acting, he'd give her that.

If his dad hadn't taken him hunting for them as a child, he would have believed her, she'd been so intense in her enthusiasm.

She was trying to pull one over on him, so he kept his mouth shut. He'd give her a show, a reward for her great acting. He'd also give her hell for it, later, but for now, he'd humour her, and have fun doing it.

Now, however, Lily was taking a bloody long time and James was shivering. He huddled over the depleted fire, vigorously rubbing his arms. The moon hadn't quite risen—not that moonlight would help much, anyway, under the trees.

* * *

After an age, he heard her rustling and looked across the fire to see her silhouette as she emerged from the tent with a bulky mass wedged under one arm.

She'd put on her favourite jumper. His jumper, actually, an ugly thing his mum had given him for Christmas fifth year. She'd rescued it from the bottom of his closet and wore it more often than he ever had. She tossed him one of his own, and as soon as it was over his head she handed him—a pillow case?

"What's this for?" he asked, genuinely curious, because his dad had given him a large stick to beat them over the head.

"You'll see," she smiled, and led him amongst the trees.

* * *

Although they weren't on any marked trail, James wasn't concerned—Lily seemed to know these trails, all of them, by memory. If they got lost, really lost, they could always Disapparate back to the campsite, now they knew where the trees were. He stomped behind her.

"Sssh," Lily whispered, or tried to. "You're so bloody loud, you'll scare them away."

"You didn't tell me to be stealthy."

"It's impossible for you to be stealthy."

"Only as a human. I could transform—" he said loudly, trying to rile her up.

"No, you odd duck. Or odd stag. Snipe hunting is strictly a human activity."

"Right. So if we catch one, what will we do with it? We killed the fish for supper—understandable—but you know I won't kill for sport, like you do stags—"

"_Not_ the time to discuss the ethics of stag stalking, James. We can't eat snipe, anyway—they're terribly bitter. We'll release them."

"Why bother in the first place, then?"

"Why set something on fire?" she asked. "Or have a snowball fight? Or—or try to ride a sheep?" she whispered, dissolving into giggles.

So she knew about that, too? James was going to hex Remus as well. Were all his mates traitorous bleeding bastards? Apparently, yes.

"We're going snipe hunting because it's fun."

"Shagging in a tent is fun."

"Who have you ever shagged in a tent?"

"No one, yet," he admitted, "but you and I—"

"Yes, yes," she dismissed, "we will. But snipe hunting, and a few other things, first; I have a list."

"A list," he said, doubtful.

"Yes. Things I want to show you."

"Do these things involve your naked body? We could always shag and _then_ do the list," he tried to convince her. He _had_ to try.

"If we go back to that tent, James...I'm not an idiot—I saw you eyeing me in there earlier—we won't come out until morning."

"I fail to see the problem with that..."

She ignored him, giving his bum a squeeze, "Later, love. I promise."

"Fine," he pouted, and changed the subject. "So, do they look like?"

"It's a little bird."

"I've never heard of it."

"I'd never heard of kneazles before Hogwarts; didn't mean they weren't real."

Nicely played, Evans, you sodding little liar_._ "How do we find them?"

"With our torches."

"Isn't that a bit dangerous?" he asked. Not that he was opposed, they'd just have to be careful. "We'll set the trees alight."

She stared at him blankly before bursting into laughter, muffling her mouth with her pillowcase. "Not the Hogwarts kind." She reached inside her pillow case and pulled out two metal cylinders, handing him one.

"Oi," he lit up, face recognition dawning, "my dad has one of these. Never worked though."

"Why?" she asked, incredulous.

"No idea, but we always took it adventuring." He pressed the button, and the area around him lit up in a focused light. "Brilliant." She gave him a few moments to tinker with it, pointing the beam here and there. She laughed when he blinded himself, scolded him when he blinded _her_, and smacked it away when he pointed it on her chest.

"James. Focus."

He shined it at an owl, who hooted indignantly before fluttering away.

"JAMES."

"Sergeant?"

"I'm Lieutenant."

"Doesn't actually matter, Evans..."

"Whatever. Your pillow case. Hold it open, like so." She demonstrated.

He questioned, "How am I supposed to hold the bag with both hands _and_ the torch _and_ my wand?"

"Wand in your pocket."

"You want me to go into a strange wood, at night, unarmed_?"_

"I've wandered this property—alone—since I was six. This isn't the forbidden forest; there's nothing sinister here." She believed it, and so did he—that they were safe. It wasn't a feeling they had very often, but he didn't want to ruin the moment, so he tucked his wand away and distracted them both by asking a ridiculous question. He tried to sound genuine, too—better to do the thing properly. "And the snipe are safe?"

"They'll peck your fingers if you're too slow," she deadpanned, not missing a beat. "That's why you've got to hold the bag open, and why you've got to be quick enough to catch them."

"And where am I supposed to hold the torch?"

"Either under your arm," she said, demonstrating once again, "or the crook of your neck. Be careful not to drop it."

He positioned it between his neck and shoulder and held the bag open.

"Perfect. Now crouch down and be quiet."

"I look ridiculous."

"It's endearing."

"I hate you."

"If only. Now, let me finish instructing you or we'll never catch snipe and you'll never get to shag me."

He gave her a mock salute, dropping the torch. He picked it up, shining it at her."

"My eyes, James!"

"Sorry, love. Fire ahead, then."

"You've got to make the sound that attracts them."

His dad hadn't included this part, either. "And what's that?"

She puckered her lips and kissed the air, producing a loud smacking sound with her lips. He shined the torch at her, incredulous. "Snogging? The sound of your snogging attracts them?"

She flushed. "Yes. But I do not sound like that when I snog."

"No. Moaning, more like. Or suction."

"Gross."

"You're gross."

"Shut up."

"I'd be happy to, but we'd have to give up snipe hunting and go back to the tent."

"Prat. Make the sound."

"I refuse."

"On what grounds?"

"Snipe aren't real."

Her eyes widened, but she recovered quickly. "Yes they are."

"No, they're not, and shame on you, Lily Evans, for trying to trick me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she insisted, but she wasn't looking him in the eye. Gotchya.

"Snipe aren't exclusive to muggles, you know. My dad took me snipe hunting as a boy. It's a cruel trick to play. I was devastated."

"You fell for it as a child?"

"Didn't you?"

"Well, yeah."

They stared at each other for a minute, locked in a stand-off, pillow cases hanging limply at their sides. Then Lily smacked his shoulder lightly. "You complete prat! If you knew, why'd you play along?"

"You are adorable," he shrugged, "and you were so excited."

"Can't blame me for trying, right?"

"Guess not. I think we should probably go back to the tent now...you can atone for your dishonestly."

"Not quite, Casanova. C'mon," she said, tugging his hand, leading him further into the woods. "I want to show you something."

"Does it involve your naked body?"

She laughed, "Not quite, but I promise, it's worth seeing."

* * *

"Sure you won't tell me what it is you want to show me?" he asked in an undertone. Now that he wasn't trying to be deliberately obnoxious, to aggravate Lily about snipe hunting, he didn't want to cause an unnecessary disturbance to the wildlife.

"No, you impatient child," she chided, but the smile she flashed over her shoulder at him undermined the exasperation in her voice.

They'd walked hand in hand over one hill, then another, until she turned onto the second path they came across.

Unable to help his idiot romantic impulses—as Sirius called them—he tried to hold her hand while following the trail, but it was too narrow, and their arms went numb. When she tripped, taking him down with her, they gave it up for a lost cause.

James normally prided himself on being able to find his way around a forest, but as they switch paths once, twice, four and five times, he grew disoriented. It would have been disconcerting, except Lily was sure of her direction, even in the dark. "

How d'you know this place so well? How much time did you have to spend out here to learn them like this?"

"Quite a bit," she answered. She halted, and hHe pulled up short so as not to run into her, but she'd turned to face him and grabbed his hand. "There's more to the story—about the Harrows, and this farm—than you know. It's a long story, though, and if I tell it to you...it'll take awhile. We'll have to go the long way around, to get where we're going. Is that alright?"

He tugged her hand, and pressed his lips to her forehead. "That's fine. I was just teasing about being impatient—you know that. But you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, or that you're not comfortable discussing. You know that, right?"

"I do know that, but thanks. It's—it's a good story to tell. Just...it isn't easy, given...everything. I want to tell it though."

He cupped her neck and kissed her—not, he wasn't going to snog her or anything, but sometimes she overwhelmed him, and he didn't know what else to do, so he kissed her. But he pulled away, before things got out of hand, because it was still _Lily_ and it could very easily get out of hand.

He kissed her nose, and leaned his brow to hers.

"I love you," she said, kissing his chin, tugging on the hairs at the nape of his neck. "You're pretty fantastic."

"Same."

She kissed him again, short and sweet, before turning around to march forward. "I never knew my grandfather. You knew that, right? He died in the war."

Fuck—she wasn't joking about it being a rough story. "The muggle war, right? With Hitler, and all that. "

"...and all that, yeah. That's the one."

She launched into her narrative as they walked, "He—Grandfather Evans, Petunia and I called him, though we never met him—he died in the war..." She ducked under a branch, and held it so it didn't whip James in the face. "It was near the end of the war, too, and they thought they were in the clear. But it was a mine—d'you know what that is? It's like a bomb, an explosion, a large fire?" She turned, saw him nod, and continued, "Well, one army buries it underground, and when you step on it..."

"Fucking hell," James exclaimed. He couldn't help his outburst—the dishonour—he could be underhanded, but that was a damned devious thing to do.

"Yeah. Just...it's brutal...and completely senseless."

"I'll say."

"Point is, his best mate was Mr. Harrow—Pops. Pops and my Grandad were school mates, down in Cokeworth. They were inseparable—played football together, and worked in the same factory together." They came upon another trail and Lily took it, climbing left, up a steep hill. "Careful, here, lots of roots on the ground. Anyway...Grandmum Evans didn't every talk about this very much, understandably but Mrs. Harrow would, after Grandmum passed." She scrambled over a fallen log, waiting for James to do the same before continuing. "Gran told me that Pops and Grandfather married pretty girls within months of each other over the same summer...and that the boys—her boys, she always called them her boys."

Lily glanced back at him, smiling, because that's what she called he and his mates—_her boys_.

"They couldn't, or wouldn't, be parted, moved their wives into the same set of row houses. No one was surprised when babies were announced, and their sons were born in the same week next summer: Dad first, and Davie—the Harrow's son—five days later."

She led him up the hill, and down another. He stifled his questions, and he didn't press her to continue. She would if she could, and if she didn't, he couldn't fault her.

But she did start again, leading them towards the right, on another path, down into a short valley. "Then the war came. Pops and Granddad were older than some of the other kids enlisting, and they had families. But...it was their duty...to fight. Pops told me that if there was something they could do to stop it, they were damn well going to try. He used more colourful language than that, actually," she laughed, "but you get the point. They couldn't just stand aside and let it happen...Duty, and honour, and all that."

She smiled sadly back at him, because of course he understood. Isn't that what they were doing now, here, in their own war? He reached forward to rub her shoulder.

"So...they enlisted together, and they served together, and they survived some damned hellish things together, but...but only Mr. Harrow came home. It was...he was there when my grandfather died. He watched his best mate die."

"Fuck," exclaimed James., again, he couldn't help it.

Every mission—it was his worst nightmare, an actual nightmare he'd had more than once.

She grabbed his hand, squeezing once, before releasing it and continuing on, "Fucked up, yeah? He came home with his best mate's tags, and one less leg. So my dad—he's twelve, by this point. He barely remembered life before the war, before his dad left, but he does see that his best friend's father, his uncle JJ, has come home—traumatized, broken, yes, but home. And my dad... he got a pair of cold metal tags with his father's name imprinted upon them."

"How'd your dad get through that? I mean, I knew your grandfather died, but I'd never have known that your dad suffered that kind of trauma as a child."

"Erm, that's the thing. It was the Harrows that saved him, really, he and Grandmum both...So let me backtrack to the girls, my Grandmum and Gran. The war was bad for all muggles, James, not just the soldiers. The girls worked long hours in a factory, they survived on rations—that's like the ministry telling them what food they could buy, and it wasn't anything like enough. And there were bombings, dropped from aeroplanes."

He only vaguely understood that, but the picture was painted—it was bloody awful.

"Everything, every aspect of their lives, was about the war...the girls, Grandmum and Gran, ate dinner together every night, or fed the boys together, while the other one worked. And the boys were raised in their formative years, basically like twins, until the war ended.

"But then your grandfather died."

She reached for his hand, awkward hiking be damned. "Yeah. Gran said getting that telegram about Butch—that's my Grandfather—was the worst day of her life, of hers and Grandmum's both. My dad never really talked about it, either, and I don't blame him, of course, but he did tell me this: On Mr. Harrow's first night home, my dad wanted to go see him, but Grandmum said no, they couldn't intrude on the Harrow's family time. He told me he sat there with my Grandmum, across from their battered old kitchen table, a full plate overflowing with food—rations had finally been lifted—but neither of them would touch it. Then the line rang, and it was Mrs. Harrow—Bridg—wondering why their arses weren't over for supper, the casserole was getting cold."

"Really?" asked James, liking the Harrows more and more.

"Mmmhmm. That was that."

He heard a crack to their right, but it was just a small animal—raccoon, maybe an opossum.

"Grandmum told me, once, just before she passed, how hard it was, to see Pops without Grandfather, but that it was also the closest thing to having him around. He was so, so sorry, she'd said, and he wept when he hugged her—properly broke down—and she didn't have it in her heart to be bitter at him, or to be jealous that they had their family in-tact when she didn't."

She stopped, "I think that's the only reason she told me that—she never told a story unless there was a lesson involved. She could have...she could have avoided them, but it was going to be painful either way, so she might as well keep her family...Being with them, even though it was painful, was more bearable than being completely alone."

He squeezed her hand, "She sounds like a remarkable woman, your Grandmum Evans."

"She was. She is."

"She reminds me of you."

"James."

"I'm serious," he insisted, before remembering himself. "But I interrupted you, sorry."

"S'alright—" she smiled at him. "So, erm, uncle JJ, Pops, Mr. Harrow—whatever you want to call him—from what I've gathered, he was messed up from the war. Or maybe it was losing Grandfather, I dunno, probably both...Living in the city, Cokeworth, was awful for him. He couldn't handle the factory or the noises of the city. Some uncle died a few years post-war, and he inherited a farm—this farm—and Gran insisted they move out here. Pops didn't want to leave Cokeworth, or Grandmum, or my dad, but everyone knew it needed to happen."

She released his hand to hold up a branch with both hands, motioning for James to walk through, "Go on, you can lead the rest of the way. Take the first right, and follow it for a bit...we're nearly there."

He did so, and she walked close behind him, clinging to the back of his shirt and continuing her story, though he'd worked most it out.

"The boys were heartsick without each other, and I think the grown-ups were, too, although the country was markedly better for Pop's health... Grandmum never married again...her husband was dead, thank you very much...case closed...so it was just she and my dad...Either way, she and my dad visited constantly—every holiday, nearly every weekend, and my dad spent every summer out here. Mr. Harrow taught my dad how to swing a cricket bat—"

She didn't continue for a few minutes. "So the boys, Georgie and Davie, best mates-slash-brothers, roamed this wood together: they set up the campsite, made the table, built the boat and the dock, fashioned the swing..._stalked stags_." she said, teasing him. "They laid all these paths, too, which is why they're so damned meandering...The entire farm was their playground. Gran and Pops kept cattle for awhile—for fun, they didn't need the money—but it was too exhausting to keep up with after the boys started working full time. So...yeah. My dad brought us up here for every holiday that we weren't visiting my mum's family, or Grandmum, and I spent large parts of my summers here. After I started at school...things between Tuney and I were too horrible to come...the camping trip that first summer home was a nightmare...but dad and I still came up—until a few years ago."

"So Mr. Harrow and Mrs. Harrow have a son? I don't remember meeting him."

"That's—that's why dad stopped coming up here, James. You've got to understand—Davie was his brother. Davie actually left here and came back to Cokeworth—_Cokeworth—_to be near him. That's brotherly love; you've _seen_ Cokeworth."

She kissed his shoulder, and he reached back to pat her hair. "He took a job at the factory, when he could've played football, and he came around often enough that we girls called him Uncle Davie." Her voice halted, "...and third year, I got a letter from Mum telling me Davie's died, been an accident. I dunno what happened, exactly; neither Dad nor Mum would talk about it when I got home."

"Fucking hell."

"Yeah...it was pretty awful. But—now you know."

"I'm sorry honnie." She reached for his hand, or he reached for hers—he wasn't sure; didn't care. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, and tugged her towards him, turning 'round to face her, to kiss her. He whispered into her hair, "Thank you—for sharing all that with me."

She nodded, kissing his shoulder. "So that's why this place means so much to me, yeah? And that's how I know all the impossible trails. And my favorite part? It's here," she said, pointing ahead of them on the trail, "around this corner. Turn your torch off."

* * *

It was just a meadow—just a meadow. It wasn't especially large, though it was well lit by the moon, now full in the sky, and by the stars, unobstructed by clouds.

The grass was shorter than he'd expect it to be—to his knees—but when looked closer, he could see that it was mostly wildflowers. Lily didn't particularly care for flowers, he knew, but she was crazy about fireflies.

He looked up, around the perimeter, just in the trees, and he saw them: tiny specks of light shining at disjointed intervals—thousands of them—tiny candles being continuously snuffed out and relit. Or, James thought with a smile, staring down at his hand, tiny muggle torches being turned off and on.

"D'you see them?" she asked, excitement palpable in her voice. He nodded, smiling.

She had innumerable memories and emotions tied up in this place—that was obvious. When she stepped forward, he intended to say behind, so as not to intrude on her moment. But she tugged on his hand, tiling her hand when he gave her a questioning glance. She tugged again, and stepped forward. She wanted to share it with him.

She led him, sweaty palm to sweaty palm, to the dead centre of the clearing. "Now," she said, "look up."

It was gorgeous—the sky—of course it was. And he knew it would be, but it still took his breath away. He stepped behind Lily to wrap his arms around her, hands slipping under her jumper to rest on her stomach. She leaned back into him.

"See what I mean?" she said, tears slipping down her cheeks—though they weren't gloomy tears. She was smiling too much for that to be the case.

Upon visiting Cokeworth, he'd wondered how she knew so much about the stars, where her love for them had been born. She was always staring at them, in love with the night sky, and it wasn't until he'd started dating her that he truly started to appreciate them. But stars were hardly visible in the perpetually smoke-filled, brightly-lit sky of her hometown. It would've been a rude question to ask, though, so he'd kept it to himself.

Now, here with her, he had his answer.

* * *

"D'you want to sleep here tonight?"

"Yes," she answered, but added regretfully, "Not tonight; our fire's still going at the campsite. Tomorrow, though, yeah."

"D'you at least want to lay down for a bit? I can show off my astronomy knowledge."

"Astronomy was your worst class—you got a D on your O.W.L." she said, scandalized, though she smiled as he transfigured his pillowcase into a thick blanket and set it down on the grass.

"Yes," he conceded as she lay down next to him, resting her head on his outstretched arm, "but only because we spent all our time inventing dirty constellations."

"Oi, really? Show me."

"They're pretty crass," he warned.

"Potter, who are you talking to here?"

"Alright." It was just as well, he wanted to lighten the atmosphere. She needed a proper laugh, or ten, and making Lily was a James Potter special talent.

"Okay," he said, taking her hand in his, and pointing it to two well known constellations, "those, there? Big prick, little prick."

"Ursa Major and Minor?" she said, incredulous.

"Yeah. Well, we decided that if you turned the spoon bit into bullocks—we were twelve, mind, but you see our line of thinking."

She burst into a fit of laughter. "Idiots, you lot are complete idiots."

"They do look like pricks, you've got to admit it."

"I concede, they look like pricks, but that's not very creative—got anything better?"

"Ho ho, miss hard to impress. Alright, over there, that one—she's a burlesque dancer. We called her Suzie."

"I don't' see it."

"Look—see her skirt?

She snorted. "Yeah, I see it. You randy, filthy boys."

"You're not allowed to pinch, Evans, I _warned_ you—"

"You're right," and she did apologize, kissing his cheek.

"Do want to hear any more?"

"Against my better judgment...yes."

"Couple shagging, right there."

"Where?"

"There. You've got to tilt your head to see it."

"I still don't—"

"30 degree angle. And that—"

"How?'

"Ok, clearly this isn't working. Remember the changing rooms, after we trounced Hufflepuff last year?"

"How could I possibly forget that?" she asked, smiling, _blushing_. "But how does _that_ translate to this?"

"Well, think about that objectively—if you can, it was pretty mind blowing, I know—but think about the logistics, and see that the star right there is her other leg."

"Oh, oh my god. That's a stretch."

"It was in the changing room, too, but you managed."

"You prat!" But she nestled against him and asked for another.

* * *

"If you squint, those are a brilliant pair of knockers. Bigger than my liking," he said, palming hers, "but Sirius was always the breast man."

"Idiots."

"We were teenagers."

"You're still a teenager, and you _still_ think it's hilarious."

"Absolutely, but are you surprised?"

"Not at all. I should have known that star gazing with you would be—"

"Interesting."

"That's an adjective, for sure. I have others, but you're warm and comfortable, so I'll be nice."

* * *

"Can I make one up, or is that strictly a twelve-year old Marauder thing?"

Surprises; she was always surprising him. "Yeah, sure."

She searched the sky, looking for a suitable place, and then pointed, "How about—there. What do you see?"

"Stars?"

"No, there_."_

"More stars."

"No, not there, James. Th_ere. _Down a bit. See? She's kneeling."

"I suppose."

"Squint."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

"D'you see it?"

"I do, but why is it dirty?"

"Why would she be kneeling, James?"

He snickered. "Subtle, yet clever; I like it. You, Lily Evans, are nothing but a randy, adolescent boy in the body of an unfairly attractive woman."

"Of course I am—I'd have to have a brilliant sense of humour to keep up with you. And don't make me blush."

"Making you blush is my right as your boyfriend; you're going to have to get used to it eventually."

"Nah," she said, smiling into his neck. "I do like it when you keep me on my toes, though. It's your turn to make one up."

He pointed at some arbitrary place in the sky, didn't matter where—they were all made up, anyway. "Tits."

"You already have a pair of tits over there somewhere."

"Right, but those are _yours."_

"Did you just make my boobs a constellation?"

"I mean, don't expect to see them on any star charts or anything, but they're pretty fantastic. They deserve to be immortalized—"

"—in a constellation?"

"Absolutely. My prick is, right there, Ursa Major. Your boobs ought be out there as well."

"You're completely mad, James Potter."

"I know, Evans, but you prefer eye rolls to blushing, and I can't help but compliment you. Trying to appease you is all."

She laughed, but broke off to look at him—and that look, the one she reserved for him, it made his insides to jelly, even after a year together. "I love you."

"Same," he whispered, and pressed his lips to her hairline. She turned to face him, stars forgotten, tucking a leg between his, wrapping an arm around his waist, settling a hand on his hip. He tried to still his heartbeat—to no avail.

* * *

"Why do you love them so much?" he asked, twirling a finger around her hair.

"The stars?"

"The fireflies."

"Nostalgia," she said, smiling into his chest. "And because they're beautiful. And because they don't know how beautiful they are."

"Sounds familiar," he said, ticking the side of her stomach.

She blushed, and curled further into him.

* * *

"You're my family now, did you know that?" she said it, turning crimson before ducking her face down, burying it against chest.

"Hey, Lil. Look at me. Don't be embarrassed. You're mine, too."

She kissed him, and it was tender, sweet—perfect—and when she stopped, he respected that, too. Much as he wanted her, he recognized that this place meant so many other things for them, and he didn't want to ruin it by trying to shag her.

She'd brought him out here, shared this place with him, and called him her family.

* * *

He didn't know how long they'd been lying there, quiet, lost in their own thoughts, but they were going to fall asleep if they didn't get up soon.

"All right?" he said, nuzzling her cheek with his nose.

"Mmm. You?"

"Perfect," he said, and he found it to be true.

"We need to go back, don't we?"

"Think so...c'mon." he stood, and held a hand out to pull her up.

"It's that one," she instructed, indicating for him to take the path opposite the one they came in on.

"Are you sure I won't get us lost?"

"It's a straight shot back to the campsite—it meanders a bit, but it's just the one trail to follow."

"They actually made a path that makes sense?"

"No," she snorted, "I did, when I was ten; took an entire summer."

He added trail blazing, _literal fucking trail blazing_, to his continuous running list of intimidating-and-impressive-Lily-things. He was about to flip his torch on, but she grabbed his hand. "We can use Lumos if you want."

And it was wonderful that, despite their unspoken pact, she wanted him to be comfortable if he preferred to use magic, but it wasn't necessary. He told her as much. "It's alright—they're brighter anyway. I like them. They're not as cool as your fireflies though."

She laughed, "No, they're not, but not many things are."

* * *

"James, you've got to stop looking back at me, or you're going to trip and fall."

"You'd better lead, then, because we know that's not going to happen. I wouldn't want to make you blush or anything, or I'd tell you more..."

"Prat," she said, but she was smiling. He turned sideways, allowing her to manoeuvre past him on the narrow trail.

She didn't have to brush against him, but she did, and the way she did was a calculated, deliberate act of sabotage: Her teeth grazed his shoulder, biting lightly. Her hand, trailing along his belt, just happened to dip along the front of his pants and run the entire length of his prick. His prick, which was always at the ready when it came to Lily, immediately answered her tease by tightening in James's pants.

Then the cheeky vixen smiled at him. "You'd better close your mouth, Potter, or you'll catch those fireflies. Try to catch up, yeah?"

She broke into a flat run down the path, torch bobbing with each step, her laughter bouncing off the trees.

It was going to be like that, was it?

That was fine—_just fine_—with him.

It was never an out and out war with them, thought James, as he jogged to catch up with her. No, it wasn't a war so much as it was a perpetual battle for dominance. Sexual tension wasn't everything—he loved Lily, all of her, he adored her, swooned for her—no, it wasn't everything, but it was there, and fuck it all, it was _fun_.

He wanted her, desperately, constantly, and she pined for him in equal measure. Their need for each other—it was a constant undercurrent in their relationship.

He breathed, keeping his breaths steady, and jumped over a log.

It always started like this, when one would set the other off. He'd done it by the lake, earlier, pushing her in, but they'd been thwarted by those weeds—and the mud, and the drowning.

She'd done it deliberately, now, and it worked: the chase was on.

His trainers pounded down the path, gaining on her.

They would spur one another on—flirting, teasing, touching—trying to make the other crack first.

Determining the winner was normally a lost cause, but a very compelling argument could be made that it didn't much matter who won or lost—they both won, every time, in a broader sense of the word.

* * *

And now, he caught up to his cheeky, temptress girlfriend, and he was sure to keep her close.

He kept one hand on her waist, circling her hip bone through her jeans, the other blazing trails of its own up and down her spine. She didn't stop him, though she'd grab for his trousers if he stepped too close.

Lucky for him, his arms were longer than hers.

* * *

After he'd teased her enough, or them both enough, he slipped a hand between her legs to give her the same treatment responsible for his current discomfort. In her distraction she—well, she tripped over a tree root.

He held out a hand to help her up. He was underhanded and sneaky, not cruel. She repaid his kindness by violently tackling him.

He didn't mind being attacked—he rarely minded her attacks—they were fast, violent, sexy; this was no exception.

She pinned him against a tree—mercifully, a thorn-free tree—pressed her body to his, and snogged him as if her life depended on it.

Maybe it did.

Maybe his did, too.

She grazed his neck with her nails, driving him spare. He parted her legs, circling her thighs with his thumbs. Their tongues didn't battle for dominance or anything, as that was both gross and rude, but there was teasing, and give and take and it was—fuck, it was like snogging Lily always was: overwhelming, and completely fantastic, and it felt like drowning.

Except he _wasn't _drowning in the literal sense, like earlier—so, bonus.

They would never, ever make it back to that tent fully clothed.

Also, he was hard pressed to give a fuck.

Sure, he'd been looking forward to shagging her senseless in that cosy little tent, but there was always tomorrow.

Here, now, would do just fine.

He used his height to his advantage and pushed, knocking her off balance, turning them round, pinning _her _against the tree. She grabbed his shoulders, pulling him closer, and, _fuck. _

His mouth left hers as he worked his way across her jaw, down her neck—sucking, kissing, pulling skin between his teeth. His fingers worked at the clasp of her jeans, her zip, tugging them down past her bum, down her thighs as he told her exactly, specifically, in excruciatingly vivid detail what it was that he was going to do to her and—

"James, shut up and get on with it, yeah?" she said, exasperation, frustration, need lining her voice.

To solidify her point, she bit down on his shoulder—hard.

He dropped to his knees, wincing slightly when he landed on some sort of acorn, but no matter—he was single minded in his goal. Without preamble, his hands steadied her hips and his mouth, always so cocky, so sure of itself, hit its mark. She moaned, long and low, while he began to make good on his promises. With a dull thud, her torch dropped to the ground as she buried her hands in his hair. He groaned, as she pulled, because it hurt and because it felt so, so fucking good.

He would never, ever get tired of her—her taste, her touches, touching her, her sounds.

He didn't know when she'd ditched her shoe, or her trousers; didn't care. He only recognized that her leg was deliciously bare as she hitched it over his shoulder. He kissed her thigh, nipping, but she tugged on his hair, bucking into him, returning him to the task at hand.

* * *

She lifted her other leg off the ground, to lift it around his other shoulder, but it was still tangled in her jeans and she couldn't reach. He folded it up and pinned it between his chest and the tree. Her toes dug into his stomach as she used him as leverage, spreading further apart, so he could get closer.

She was writhing now, threatening to topple them both over. Only her shoulders touched the tree—everything else—her hands, her back, her bum, legs—was either on James, or around him.

There'd be bruises on his shoulder—from her knee—and on his back—from her heel— but she'd have her fair, share, too, before they were through.

He braced a hand against the tree, steadying them.

* * *

Close—she was so close, or she said as much, and she yanked on his hair, adjusting his angle. His hand dropped from her arse as he slipped one, then two fingers inside her.

A few well placed strokes was all it took before she _was_ there, trembling, falling to pieces in his arms.

Only _he_ got to touch her like this, love her like this, and fuck—it wasn't something he'd ever get used to.

She untangled her leg from his neck, freeing him, and dropped the other to the ground.

He wasted no time in kissing his way up her body—thigh, hip, even her tits, always fantastic, even through that damned jumper. He was tugging at her jumper, pulling up—

She was tugging at his snap, pulling down, ready, _more_ _than bloody ready_, to have him inside her.

* * *

Something big and dark was attacking them, or flying at them.

It could've been a bird, but he was ducking, pulling Lily down with him.

It—an owl—it was a bloody fucking attack owl—dove again.

Lily screamed.

* * *

His insides were churning, because Lily had Disapparated them—she had bloody fucking A_pparated_ them mid-shag.

His heart was bursting with adrenaline and need in equal measure as they landed on the ground with a thump. Although he'd lost his glasses in that madness, he could make out the orange remnants of their fire, and the dark silhouette of their tent, and a dark red blur as Lily tackled him.

Straddled him, actually, and she hovering was over him, slowly grinding her hips against his, sucking his neck, jaw, ear. She trailed a hand under his jumper to drum against his ribs, circle his stomach, pinch his shoulder—generally drive him mad.

He grabbed her hips and held them in place, lifting his own, pressing himself against her roughly—just in case she had any doubt about how fucking badly he wanted her.

But before he could do it again she grabbed his wrists and lifted them over his head, pinning them to the ground.

Sodding. Fucking. Hell.

Between tortuous kisses she whispered how she wanted him, loved him, needed him. Also, the wicked, depraved things she was going to do to him. He thought he'd been hard before, but he'd been wrong because now he was throbbing and it was agony, having her there, but not _there. _

"Fucking hell, Lil, get on with it, yeah?_"_

She slid down his body, biting, pinching, rubbing, until she was kneeling between his legs.

She tugged his pants down, and although he knew what was coming, he still hissed as she blew on him, teasing, and he moaned when her tongue ran the length of him, just like her finger had done earlier, and the feel of her mouth enveloping him knocked the breath out of him completely.

He wanted to grab her hair, to thrust into her mouth as hard as he could. He wanted to do a lot of things, actually, and while she would've taken his abuse, like he did hers, it wasn't something they'd talked about. Since he didn't know if she'd be comfortable with it, he refrained.

He refrained, but it wasn't easy because her hair tickled his thighs as her head bobbed up and down and up again in a rhythm that threatened to completely unravel him.

Her nails dug into his hips—he'd have marks, of course he would, but he didn't give a fuck.

He would never, ever get used to her mouth on him, or her hands, or her at all, really, in any way, shape, or form.

He couldn't even watch her now; she was so fucking sexy, and he'd embarrass himself.

Except she stopped, and he whimpered because she'd stopped but also because she pulled her jumper over her head, flinging it off with a flourish. She was wearing a bra—it wasn't anything particularly sexy, but it didn't matter—it was Lily and she was beautiful. He palmed her tits, thumbs tracing her nipples, and her knickers and trousers were still hanging from one knee, and her mouth was doing those wicked, depraved things to his cock, and she was beautiful, his bloody fucking fantastic amazing sexy girlfriend and—

Explosions. Oblivion. Bliss.

It barely registered that she was wiping her mouth, adjusting his pants, kissing his jaw, because he'd died. He might've died. He was definitely dead.

She might've muttered something about some mores, but he didn't know what she was talking about; didn't much care.

* * *

As blood returned to James's brain and, with it, sensible thoughts, he was presented with some credible evidence that he hadn't died and gone to heaven, as he'd previously supposed.

Observation Number One: His girlfriend was dressed, kneeling next to him, fussing with the fire. He preferred, naturally, for her to be unclothed as much as possible, but it was bloody freezing out, so he couldn't blame her.

Observation Number Two: It was bloody freezing because he was lying flat on his back on the cold ground, trousers down, in the middle of an unfamiliar wood. He had the decency to be a tiny bit embarrassed at this. He wasn't ready to get up just yet, so he settled for zipping his trousers.

Observation Number Three: He did not button them, however, because he had to take a mighty piss. He'd do so, too...when feeling returned to his extremities.

Ah, so he hadn't died after all; he was merely recovering from the best side effect of being Lily Evans's lucky bastard boyfriend.

* * *

"Welcome back," she said, once full consciousness had come. She leaned over and ruffed his fringe, kissing his forehead. "All right?"

He propped himself up on his elbows, watching her as she added two large branches to the fire. "Brilliant. Fantastic. Not dead."

"I was worried about you...thought I'd lost you."

"Almost, Evans, but no fear: I'll always come back for more." And then he asked, because he wasn't sure, "What in the fuck did you do to me? And did I pass out?"

She laughed, leaning back against their log. He rolled over and buried his face in her lap. She watched the fire and started playing with his hair—picking twigs and bits of leaves out, actually, but he didn't care, because her nails on his scalp when his entire body was still tingling felt bloody brilliant.

"Same thing you did to me," she said, tugging on a strand. "I think you took a little nap is all. I went back to the tree, and got your glasses, the torches—your wand—but my shoe is missing."

"Howditgetlosht?" he asked, but his face was muffled in her lap.

"I dunno," she said, smacking his arse. "I'm blaming you though."

"Me?" he asked, incredulous, and bit her thigh for her lie. "It was you that started it, Evans. Don't deny it. How can a shoe just vanish?"

"I dunno. I might've vanished it, actually, but I dunno know how to get it back."

"Bad luck," and he kissed her thigh, apologizing.

"I love those trainers. They were lucky."

"They were awful."

"I loved them."

"We'll get you a new pair to love."

"Here," she said, handing him his glasses. He cleaned them with the hem of his t-shirt, and set them on his face, then turned on his shoulder so that he was lying in her lap, looking up at her. She straightened his glasses for him. "You're bloody brilliant, d'you know that?"

"I did, actually, as you tell me at least once a day."

"You knew it long before I ever came 'round," he said.

"You're damn brilliant yourself. As soon as the fire builds back up a bit, we'll do some more."

"Lily, I love you, and you're fantastic and everything, but I can't do anymore. Well I could—but you'll have to give me a bit. Can we just go to bed?" He was whining, and he was ten kinds of a prat for telling his girlfriend he _didn't _want to mess around some more, but—

Lily burst out laughing, and it reverberating through her stomach, shaking his head. "No, James. Not Some More, S'mores. It's dessert."

He waggled his eyebrows—he was exhausted, but he still knew how to rile her up, "I already ate my dessert, Evans." He laughed at his own joke, and Lily pinched his nose.

"Owe."

"Don't be a baby."

"You're so mean."

"That's not what you were saying a bit ago, yeah? Just up for another twenty minutes. You'll like it...I promise."

"Alright," he said, groaning as he got to all fours, then to his knees, and finally, slowly, to his feet. "But I've got to take a piss."

* * *

It was worth the wait.

James turned out to be an excellent marshmallow roaster—Lily conceded, without a fight, though she was completely barmy and liked hers burnt and black.

The marshmallows were delicious enough on their own, but then she'd brought out sweet biscuits and a bar of Honeyduke's and, fuck it all, the s'mores were best fucking thing he'd ever eaten in his life—beating out even McGonagall's ginger biscuits, and his mum's fudge, that was bloody saying something.

He ate nine.

He ate nine, and then his stomach hurt, and he was a mess.

Lily sent his whinging arse to bed, stooping down to bank the fire.

He crawled over to the tent, crawled into the tent, and collapsed onto their blankets.

He cast a cushioning charm, and it was as good as being at home.

Except they were outside, camping, and wasn't that a thousand times better?

This tent was pretty cosy, after all—she'd been right about that, too.

He could shag her in the morning—he'd wake her up, actually, with his head between her legs—she liked that.

And they could sink in the boat, probably drown, trying to get it to float.

He'd pop into town to get some rope for that swing, check on the cat, and he might as well stop by the Thai place to pick up some take-away, so they wouldn't have to fish, and more marshmallows, since he'd eaten the entire bag.

Respites—they were _definitely_ going to be a thingand they would always come here.

He'd fix that rope swing; maybe learn some of the trails.

* * *

His random, absurd thoughts were slowly carrying him to sleep—though he couldn't, not without her. But then she was there, stripping off her clothes. She tugged off his glasses, his jumper and t-shirt, putting the latter on herself.

It was bloody fucking freezing until she cast a warming charm over the entire tent before curling under the blankets with him.

Then she was there: warm, comfortable, comforting— _home_.

Family.

She'd called him her family.

He curled around her, kissing her temple, and closed his eyes, patiently waiting for her steady snores, which he knew would come soon, to lull him to oblivion.


End file.
